Preacher Man

He nodded amiably, and then I was off into the trees. Just like down at Myrtle Brook, the leafy darkness sucked me in with an immediate wave of relief; this was fine. I'd been feeling my armpits get wet, and I needed the shade. I led straight down toward the meadow, the ground immediately getting soft and slappy against my shoes. "Watch your feet, Mike."

"You're not kidding." The trail started out narrow, but then it shot across a stream into the main part of the reservation and widened out as it eased its way through the oaks and elms. "It's thick back in here."

"Yeah," I said casually, "it all used to be open meadow. These trees are all less than a hundred years old." I laughed. "Around 1925 or so, people were realizing they'd rather have recreation trails than sheep pastures, you know?"

"Sounds great for everyone but the shepherds." We tramped over the little bridge, and the trail was suddenly an airy track covered with trampled mulch. "Oh, nice! This is cool."

"Literally." I turned back to him. "Come, walk alongside me. We can act like a couple." I hesitated, still probing. "Not that a near-priest would know anything about that. But don't worry. I won't take advantage of you." I laughed too loudly as he drew up alongside. He didn't say anything, which I took as a sign that I'd gone too far. Throttle back, Shan! "So. Have you always been a deacon, Mike?"

"I used to drive a truck," he sighed. "This is nice and shady under here, huh?"

"It is!" I touched his forearm impulsively, feeling a smear of sweat there. I'd always been a toucher. "Almost nobody comes in here, other than the occasional dogwalker. You like dogs, Mike?"

"I do. They don't like me."

I giggled. He was fun. "I'll protect you." I patted my hip, the little thing of mace tucked into my waistband. "I'm armed, Preacher Man."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm fine, Shannon." We walked on, the ground still soft. "Muddy here."

"There's a reason nobody ever built homes back in here. A lot of the trails are in swampy areas." I laughed to myself, trying to decide whether to go with the double-entendre, but there was really no decision to be made; I'm a leopard that won't change her spots. "Ever follow a trail to a swampy area, Mike?"

He hesitated. "There are a lot of different kinds of trails." When I glanced over at him, he was smiling at least.

"Hell yeah," I agreed, stepping wide over another stream. I waited for him on the far side. "Sorry. My mouth runs away sometimes."

"Oh, come on." He stepped over himself, pretty nimble on the rocks. I wondered how old he was. "It's not 1962. People swear, Shannon."

"Do you?" Again I got the urge to take his hand, but no; too far, Shan. "Or, like, have you?"

He just looked sourly at me. "Remember what I said I used to do?" He waited until I nodded, smiling. "Truckers swear, Shannon. Amazingly enough."

"But you're not a trucker anymore." I paused at another rocky little ford, nodding for him to go first; I wanted to get a look at his butt, though his shorts were a little too loose for that. Worse, by the time he turned around for me, I'd missed my chance at checking out his calves too; I was rusty. Instead, I just stood a moment with my arms up, sweeping my long wavy hair back into a new ponytail, praying yet again that the salons would get their acts together and open up soon. He turned his head scrupulously away as soon as he realized he was staring at my tits, but I just smiled in triumph. "Why'd you stop trucking?" I asked softly once I had myself squared away, dancing across the creek.

He glanced down to make sure my shoes were out of the water, which I found charming. "Well," he began as we passed deeper into the trees, "I was hoping to become a family man. And driving big rigs is no career for that kind of thing."

"Family man!" I hoped I didn't look too jubilant. "You've got kids, Mike?"

"Just one." One was enough, I told myself; he'd fucked! So if I really set my sights on it, I could probably get him to fuck again. "A daughter. She's eighteen now. I tried to make a go of it with her mother, but..." He paused, glancing shyly over at me. The trail was bending south toward the big fork where you could either go to the Oak Grove or to the birdwatching spot over by the Old Cemetery. "Things don't always work out, you know."

I thought back to my days as a Catholic, to my parents. "I'll bet the parishioners," I started slowly, carefully, "aren't used to having someone standing up in front of the church who has a family." I raised my eyebrows. "Right?"

"A lot of deacons have families. Most, probably; it was no big deal when I was at St Agnes' awhile ago." He sighed. "This is a rough time to be a minister, like being a teacher." I nodded. "Who knows? By the time we get the church open for services and the people get to know me, it'll just be one of many, many changes that their pastoral leader's got a kid."

"Does she live around here?" I was curious about this. "She goes to your church, right?"

"Well," he replied slowly, "she and I didn't really have a lot of contact for years, but it's getting better since I moved back here. Now, she comes over in the morning sometimes to borrow my car, mostly." I laughed. "Seriously. Totally unannounced, too; it's crazy. I'll come downstairs to find an empty driveway and a pink post-it note on the rectory door."

"Wow!"

"It's fine. We're feeling our way along." He frowned at the fork in the trail. "Which way?"

"Whichever way gets you back to the rectory," I winked. "Remember, I've taken responsibility for making sure not to lead you astray." I laughed again as I nodded him across another stream crossing, and this time I glued my eyes to a pair of long, sinewy calves under supple legs. I felt like stooping down and having them for a snack, and this time when he turned at the far side of the water I got bolder: he'd fucked, remember. So I extended my arm. "Help me out?"

Our fingers met and gripped, his hand hot against mine as he hauled me over; okay, fine, I played it up a little, and stumbled intentionally. That gave him an opportunity to act all manly and chivalrous, so I smiled bashfully at him as I pulled my foot out of the water. "Aw, you got wet!" he tutted, shaking his head, and that was too much to pass up: I just stood there next to him, his hand in mine, and stared at him with a smirk until he chuckled a little too self-consciously. "Not leading me astray, you said," he told me quietly, and I let him see my eyebrows rise high.

"What?" I moved past him with an extra sway to my hips, then tossed him a quick grin over my shoulder. "Let's get a move on, Preacher Man; time's a-wasting."

* * *

I thought about him late that night as I stood next to the open screen door overlooking the salt marsh, the moon making all the grasses bluish and ghostly with the lights of Southside in the distance. I'd been thinking about him all day, in fact, of his legs and his smile and his affable nod as we'd parted at the end of the trail with a handshake that lasted nice and long.

Over by the wall near the bathroom, my phone lay forgotten on Leon's armchair, the Preacher Man's number safely tucked into my contact list. It hadn't been hard to get him to give the number up, but then I'd texted him this afternoon about meeting up to walk again tomorrow and... nothing.

I stirred as the sheets rustled on my bed, back behind me in the dim room, and I sighed a little. Dylan was sleeping there, long and lean and naked and covered with my sweat, his balls depleted yet again; even as I thought of that, I felt the insistent tickle at the top of my thigh where his semen was finding its way back out of me, as if it had just taken my pussy as a temporary rental.

Which was all it was supposed to be to him, come to think of it; when I'd first started doing him it'd been a fling, the most irresponsible kind of hookup: a teacher fucking her student, the thrill simultaneously breathtaking and scary, and now it was more than a year later and the thrill was stale, even if his dick still felt great inside me. I nodded to myself, considering; even a month ago, it had already been time to move on. And, I considered, if I'd listened to myself then, it would still be my Leon in that bed instead of foolish, funny, long-dicked Dylan.

Not that I'd be any happier, though. I'd been with Leon for years, years of nice dinners and long, serious discussions, years of grinding against his face, years of scrupulous birth control, and for what? Certainly not marriage. Not even love, though there'd been times that I'd thought I was in love with him.

I turned again to study the shape in my stained sheets, my whole room stinking. I'd not had Dylan over since that night a few weeks ago, and when he showed up I could tell he hadn't exactly saved himself for me. Still, he'd been what I needed that night: a blind, sticky escape, a few hours of complete physical exhaustion, my body his to use as long as he needed it. Just me, needing my hole filled; I'd used to do more of that kind of thing, random hookups, but Dylan had been my go-to for awhile now.

Dylan. I leaned against the slider, the glass cold on my nude ass despite the warmth of the summer night, and let my eyes rove along his body.

What to do about Dylan?

We'd done just about everything there was to do, honestly. The very first time we'd hooked up, right here in my bedroom, I'd stuck my tongue into his ass. There's really only one direction to go from there. I'd tasted his entire body, all of it, and taken his long, skinny penis into every nook and cranny I had. He'd been my first and only anal, a thing that still embarrassed me. He'd heard me scream his name dozens of times, and as I leaned my head back against the night window I tried to think of a single square inch of my skin he hadn't ejaculated on.

Nope. Not a one.

I'd resolved early on to turn him into a first-rate cuntmuncher, and after about a year and a half, off and on, he now knew every corrugated surface of my pussy, inside and out. Lately, though, I'd been noticing... well, a rote quality to his cunnilingis. Not a lack of enthusiasm, really, but a lack of imagination. There'd been a sameness, which we'd tried to eradicate lately by getting even more gonzo; now, thinking about that, I saw clearly why he'd been so insistent on bringing Maria to me, that fateful day about three weeks ago. When Leon had come home early.

It had been vile and nasty and very, very hot. It hadn't been our first time with another woman, but there was definitely something super-exciting about bringing in his own girlfriend.

But.

I sighed and looked away, my brain realizing what my heart already knew: if the only way to spice it up with Dylan was to drag an eighteen-year-old stranger into bed with us, well, then we'd already jumped the shark.

Goddamn. His body still took my breath away, though, and I figured I could let him drill me a few more times before I passed him on. So, blinking away my doubts, I leaned over the bed and let my hair drift along his back while my hand moved my sheets down to reveal that tight, perfect ass. He was already awake before I pushed my finger into his anus, his eyes bright in the starlight coming through my windows, and I slid gratefully into bed alongside him with his hand confident on my tits.

I had no doubt I'd get him hard again, and quickly. I always could.

* * *

The Preacher Man texted back the next day, in the afternoon as I sat around in my backyard reading yet another book; I love reading, but holy shit, this was a lot of books these days. I was currently dildo-deep in Atkinson's Revolutionary War book. It had been awhile since I'd taught Early US, but that didn't mean I didn't care about it. I was reading about Montgomery at Quebec and getting pissed that I'd never heard about it, when my phone warbled.

I smiled. Preacher Man.

I stretched my bare legs out on the grass, gazing out over the marsh. "Hi," said the text. "Its Mike, from St Bede's."

I immediately called him. Fuck this text bullshit. I did my best work verbally. His phone rang once, then twice, and midway through the third ring his pleasant voice floated back over the line. "Hello? Who's this?"

I smiled at my phone. "So here's the thing, Mike," I began reasonably. "When you message a teacher, you should proofread your texts before you hit send. 'It's Mike, from St Bede's' needs an apostrophe on that first word."

He paused, and I thought I could hear a smile in his voice when he replied. "Give me some credit. I did include a comma. This is Shannon, right?"

"The very one. How you doing?" I settled comfortably back in my Adirondack chair. It was another sultry day, though the breeze was keeping things tolerable. I laid my book over my thigh. "I did notice the comma."

"Yeah. And what difference is there, really, between a comma and an apostrophe?"

"All the difference in the world." He seemed tentative, which was fine; I could deal with that. "So thanks for texting me. What's on your mind?"

"Well, I just wanted to thank you for guiding me along the path the other day."

"The path?" I chuckled. "We talked about this. There are a lot of trails. Paths. Some I know, some I don't. Have you ever seen Pulp Fiction?" I had no idea where I was going; I'd learned, though, that my id could do a pretty good job if I just let it. "That Bible verse? 'The path of the righteous man?' I always think of that if I hear the word path."

"I have seen that." He hesitated. "It's not a real Bible passage, you know."

"Good." I was grinning now, my subconscious doing her job. "Because the path of the righteous man is something I know nothing about." I laughed gaily. "Unrighteous men, sure."

He laughed with me, though it sounded forced. Such an awkward man! I wanted to lay him down and hold him all of a sudden. "Well, thanks again. I had a fun morning."

"When do you want to meet up again?" I noticed I was fondling my right tit, and glanced over to see whether my pervy neighbor was at his window. I didn't mind him watching me, really, though his wife probably did. I'd caught him several times during the quarantine, checking me out as I did my planks and yoga out here. "I've got more to show you, Deacon Mike."

"Well, anytime is fine." I thought for a moment about calling his bluff and inviting him over right then and there to explore my salt marsh,but decided that might be a bridge too far. Still. It made me smile. "Tomorrow morning?"

"Sounds great. I'm in." I paused, my nipple hardening. "I'll figure out a good hike for you and text you where the trailhead is. Got a car?"

"I'm Catholic, not Amish." I laughed. "Sounds good."

"See you in the morning," I signed off, my book forgotten as I thumbed off the phone and dashed into my house. I stepped straight out of my shorts and collapsed onto the couch, the one that still smelled a little like Dylan's cum (or was that just my imagination), my hand slipping straight down my underwear and into my greased-up pussy as though Mike was actually there, watching me with his near-priest dick hardening in his pants and that thought? The thought of him watching me, maybe with his eyes narrowed in disapproval? Dimly I thought of my vibrator upstairs, but there was no time to fetch it and I sensed I wouldn't need it, anyway.

Oh, the dirty fun I could have with him. The words came back to me from elementary school. Bless me, father, for I have sinned; I thought about your cock while I plowed my own sloppy cunt. I had two fingers straight in, scraping hard along the front of my vagina while I let my thumb put firm, instinctive pressure on my clit. The sensation was almost immediate, a staticky tinging in my limbs buzzing back along my body toward my pussy. I daydreamed you had your priest stuff on, all the robes and shit, and that I was under your gown with your balls in my mouth. I moaned to myself, my nipples trying to bore holes through my thin t-shirt. My fingers were a sodden mess. What's my penance, father? Taking your holy dick in my ass? No lube?

I came hard, brutally arched against the back of the couch with my fingertips reaching as far into me as they could get. Jesus, but it was a wipeout: a full frontal attack of an orgasm, complete with little fireworks behind my clenched eyelids and that feeling like some hot pinkish ball was expanding right in my crotch, driving out a flood of vaginal juices onto my spastic hand inside my unsuspecting underwear.

I was gasping like Seabiscuit at the end of that race in the movie, my whole body sheened with sweat and my other hand leaving fingermarks on my left tit. Good lord, but that felt good! It was like any other drug, the brutal ramp-up to a zany high, and now I was left with the shaky aftermath and a vague sense that I shouldn't leave my book out there with the humidity so high. And all the while, I thought about that nice, low voice of his. "I had a fun morning," he'd said.

Not as much fun as the one you're going to have, Deacon.

* * *

He found me in high humidity just outside a fog patch at the City Forest parking lot, the Pasture Dam Trailhead a mucky mass of grey between thick banks of local scrub pine. It was half past six in the morning, and I was pleased when he showed up right on time.

Tardiness pisses me off.

I leaned nonchalantly against my shitbox Honda with my bandana in my hand, rather than around my neck; instinct told me that was a sign of trust and friendliness in this new world of ours. You met someone and immediately pulled your mask on, it meant mistrust. Low expectations. You met them with your mask around your neck, ready to go, it meant wariness. Caution. You met them with your mask totally off? Openness. Closeness. It meant you'd fuck them.

That's what my gut told me, anyway. It's not like there was a manual for this shit. I was in a tanktop with my shades pulling the neckhole down to show subtle cleavage over a pair of tights. Not in black, either; I wanted him seeing at least two camels' worth of toe, if he wanted.

I was grinning as he pulled up in a sensible Ford, the windows all glared out. I was expecting several things from his first appearance. The mask etiquette, of course; I'd note that. A hat might mean he was self-conscious about his hair, and thus his age; he'd think I was too young for him, maybe. Clothes: shorter shorts would mean he wanted me to notice his thighs. Same with a tanktop. And sunglasses? Definitely, that was the most important part: if he was wearing shades, it meant he wanted to check me out. That he thought I was worth checking out. Hell, that he'd fuck me.

My lips puckered into a grin, then, as I looked through the car window and saw shades and his mask down low; he smiled back at me as he messed with the shifter and the keys and all that, then took his mask from his neck before he swung the door open toward me. "Good morning!"

No hat, I noticed. I nodded. "Hi there," I chirped. My own thick hair was stuffed into a faded old trucker cap from the Book and Tea that I'd worn hiking for years at Ray Peaks. "I'm glad you came!"

"Me too." He was glancing carefully around at anything but me, which told me all I needed to know. I was happy I'd picked the orange tights, and I stayed where I was: on display, letting myself be examined. I hadn't always been so confident, but the past few years I'd started to understand how easily I could get men to want me. That's a powerful realization. He shut his door and stood there awkwardly, looking over at the trail. "Foggy."

"My plan," I explained coolly, "is to drag you back in there, get you lost, and leave you to find your own way out using only a crucifix and a bottle of holy water." I kept good eye contact. He'd not seen my eyes the other morning, so I wanted him to get a sense of how they glittered. Leon had always loved my eyes.